


Sortilege

by IndigoNight, thenerdyindividual



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14074236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdyindividual/pseuds/thenerdyindividual
Summary: It's the 1920s. Harry and Merlin are looking for someone. Eggsy keeps receiving visions. The three of them get pulled together by a web of lies.





	1. Chapter 1

Eggsy opens his closet door and removes the nicest jacket he has. He lays it out on his bed, and slides the matching shirt on over his head. He tugs on the pants as well and does up the buttons. He buttons on the braces to the top, follows it up with the jacket he just laid out on the bed. He spends several minutes fiddling with a bowtie until it doesn't look a mess.

  
He takes the hair oil and his comb off the shelf and centers himself in front of the little dull mirror he owns. He scoops a generous portion of the hair oil onto his fingers and works to slick his hair down. The comb helps to truly stick the strands to his head. Once his hair is sufficiently smooth and shiny, he caps the hair oil and wipes his fingers clean on a towel. He picks up the stick of kohl he snatched from Roxy last time he saw her, and lines his eyes for a more dramatic look. It emphasizes his eyes in a way that makes him appear more ethereal. It is an aesthetic that works in his favor as a “psychic”.

  
He takes one last look at himself in the mirror before he has to leave. He looks party ready.

  
He places his hat on his head, and dons his coat. Through his open window he can hear the wail of a car horn. Jamal is here then. Eggsy grabs the crystal ball off its shelf, opens the door of his tiny flat, and jogs down the stairs that lead to the street. The metal cracks with every step he takes.

  
Jamal is leaning out of the window of the car gesturing for him to hurry up, gloves flashing in the sunlight.

  
“Hurry up mate! If I ain't there to pick up the Granthams when they finish their tea I'm fucked!” he yells.

  
“I'm coming! Keep your hair on!” Eggsy calls and picks up the pace. He pulls open the door and swings himself up into the seat next to Jamal.

  
“Where are you headed now?” Jamal asks.

  
“The Peckham’s are hosting.” Eggsy answers, eliciting a groan from Jamal.

  
“You've gotta be fucking joking. It will take an hour to get to the Peckham’s!”

  
“Oi! I'm just as hard up for cash as you are. Stupid blue nose fucks respect me more if I show in a car instead of walking up their front lawns.” Eggsy says indignantly.

  
Jamal shakes his head but pulls out onto the streets of London. They drive in silence for several minutes before Jamal speaks again.

  
“People really believe in the shit you say you can do?”

  
“I keep getting hired so I guess so.” Eggsy answers easily.

  
“People really think you can see the future and talk to spirits?” Jamal asks, skeptical.

  
“The war left people with a lot of missing relatives. They want answers and they are willing to pay a lot for them,” Eggsy explains, “They want to believe me cause if they don't that means they're accepting that people are gone yeah?”

  
“Still seems mental that you can convince them of it,” Jamal says with a shake of his head, “Not gonna complain though. It makes you a good chunk of cash.”

  
The buildings of London start to disperse as they approach the edge of the city. The ash from the factories slowly dissipates the further from Eggsy’s flat they travel. Trees line the lane they are driving down. Long stretches of green roll off into the distance ahead of them.

  
Eggsy is relieved that the Peckham family lives close to London. He's feel like shit if he made Jamal drive all the way out into the proper countryside without getting payed. Cash has been tight for both of them lately. It would put Jamal’s job at risk as well. They’re lucky he has time to pick him up between running the family between their country estate and London errands as it is, if he is so much as a minute late they would dismiss him out of hand.

  
They finally pull up to the Peckham’s manor. It is a grand house built from granite and stone, and the drive snakes its way through the emerald green lawn. Eggsy smacks Jamal on the shoulder.

  
“Pull over mate.” he asks.

  
“Really Eggsy? Why do you always gotta climb into the back?” Jamal complains.

  
“These blue nose fucks believe me more if I emerge from the back seat like one of them birds in a talkie.” Eggsy explains, hopping down from the seat.

  
“Then why don’t you ride in the back to begin with?” Jamal asks.

  
“I ain’t gonna leave my best mate in the front by himself am I? Besides it takes two seconds for me to change seats. There ain’t a reason to bite my head off.” Eggsy responds and pulls the door to the back seat closed behind him.

  
“Yeah well if I end up late to pick up the Granthams by two seconds guess who gets sacked and accused of trying to steal the car?” Jamal grumbles.

  
As they pull up the drive the main doors to the house swing open, emitting a stream of servants. Jamal comes to a stop and the gravel crunches under the tires of the car. As he hops down to let Eggsy out of the back seat, the Peckham family emerges from the house as well. Jamal rolls his eyes at Eggsy as he pulls the door open for him. Eggsy tries not to laugh at his friend’s exasperation.

  
Eggsy descends from the back seat with a wide sweep of his arms. He bows low to the Peckham’s, then proceeds forward with his arms extended in front of him. He plays up a dramatic pout and comes to a stop in front of the wife.

  
“Lady Peckham,” he exclaims dramatically with a fake accent that could cut glass, “How good it is of the spirits to bring us together once again.”

  
Lady Peckham extends her hand and Eggsy bows low to drop a kiss on it, “Master Unwin, thank you for coming. Your guidance will be infallible to both myself and my guests.”

  
Behind them Jamal snorts and it brings a frown to Lady Peckham’s face. Eggsy straightens up quickly.

  
“Please excuse my driver. He has been recovering from a cold for several days.” Eggsy explains, rushing to keep Jamal from offending this ridiculous woman. Secretly, he thinks the snort was justified.

  
Nonetheless, the explanation Eggsy offers soothes Lady Peckham somewhat. The frown leaves her face and she smiles politely at Eggsy, “Your driver may park in the garage until you are ready to leave this evening. It is on the east end of the property. One of the footmen can show him the way.”

  
“That is very kind of you Lady Peckham but I have asked him to run errands for me today in London. He will return with the car this evening.” Eggsy says, coming up with an excuse for Jamal’s absence. He doesn’t want his friend to remain here much longer and risk not getting the car back to the Granthams in time.

  
Lady Peckham seems to accept this excuse easily and she turns to her butler that is hovering just behind her and to her left, “Mr. Kegley please show Master Unwin to the library. I believe that is the best place for him to arrange himself for the evening.”  
“Right away my lady.” Mr. Kegley answers and turns on his heel to lead Eggsy into the manor.

  
“Thank you, Master Unwin. Guests shall be arriving soon and I must ready myself for the party.” Lady Peckham says, dismissing Eggsy to follow after Mr. Kegley.

  
Eggsy inclines his head politely and follows Mr. Kegley to the library. A small table with a chair on either side is already set up for Eggsy to work at. It is draped with a fine lace tablecloth. The wingback chairs are a rich brown leather.

  
Eggsy removes his hat, and smiles charmingly at Mr. Kegley, “Thank you Mr. Kegley. I can take it from here.”

  
“Very well sir.” Mr. Kegley responds and once again turns on his heel and leaves.

  
Eggsy produces his crystal ball from his coat pocket and sets it in the middle of the table. He rests his hat on the edge of the table. He finds that if he tells someone a rather nice fortune they like to give him a little extra for his troubles. Connecting them to a spirit of a loved one draws even more money. He feels a little bad for cashing in on people’s grief but he figures when you’re rich enough to hire a psychic for a lavish dinner party, then you can afford to pay the psychic a little extra.

  
He folds his coat and stashes it under the table. People never like to see it for some reason. Perhaps it makes him seem too human.

  
He checks his reflection in the glass of a bookcase. His hair is still in place, and the khol hasn’t smudged. The latter is a huge relief. He still hasn’t mastered the application like Roxy has.

  
He returns to his table to wait. This is his least favorite part of any party, the waiting. Once guests arrive he’ll be mobbed by hundreds of people in varying states of sobriety. Until then though he is left by himself to wait. Despite doing this for nearly three years, each time he enters a manor like this he worries that someone will suddenly burst into the room and call him a fraud. That he will be forced to return all the money he has earned and be tossed into a debtors’ prison because he is incapable of returning even half the funds he earned because it has gone to rent, food, and his mother and sister.  
His leg bounces nervously under the table and he glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. It reads three o’clock. Any minute now guests will be arriving and Eggsy can get into the swing of things.

  
He can hear commotion at the front door, the sound echoing down the hallway to the library. It sounds like guests are arriving. Mr. Kegley’s voice is a constant thrum in the background and Eggsy assumes he must be welcoming the first wave of arrivals.

  
Eggsy lounges dramatically in his chair, presenting the image of a psychic that everyone conjures when they hear the word. Any minute now the library doors will be swung open and the first guest will approach. Generally those are the ones that want to know if they are going to come into great fame and fortune. Generally the answer is no but Eggsy has mastered the art of vague answers so that the person only hears what they like.

  
Sure enough Mr. Kegley opens the library doors and admits the first guest.

  
She can’t be much older than Eggsy himself. Her blonde hair is curled into ringlets and her lipstick is a bloody slash on her pale face. Her violet frock floats off her shoulders like a cloud. She approaches his table hesitantly.

  
“Please,” Eggsy says with a winning smile, “Have a seat. I am only here to be your guide. There is no reason to be nervous.”

  
Something about his tone obviously relaxes her and she takes her seat. She leans forward conspiratorially.

  
“I haven’t done this before,” she admits with a nervous twitter, “How does it work?”

  
“It’s easy. You let me know if there’s anything you want me to ask the spirits specifically and I see where they guide me.”

  
“Can they tell me if I will find a rich husband?” she asks eagerly.

  
“There is only one way to find out.” Eggsy answers and holds his hands out.  
The young woman takes his hands in hers as expected.

  
“Close your eyes for me. I will let you know when it is time to open your eyes again.” Eggsy instructs and the young woman does so immediately.

  
Eggsy takes deep breath and sighs loudly. “The spirits are giving me a name. I believe it starts with a J, possibly a G? John, Geoffrey, James?”

  
“I have a cousin James!” the young woman exclaims.

  
“Yes. Yes I can see that,” Eggsy agrees, “The spirits are showing him very clearly. They are also showing me a house? A plot of land? And an old man. Is anyone in your family ill?”

  
“My Grandfather has been ill for several years.” the young woman answers.

  
“Yes,” Eggsy exclaims, “I think it is your grandfather. Can you think of any reason that the spirits would be showing me your grandfather and your cousin James with a house?”  
“James is the eldest boy in the family now that my father is gone. He’s most likely going to inherit my Grandfather’s property. Do you think that’s why?” the young woman asks.  
“It is very likely. The real question is why did the spirits show me this vision when you asked about a rich husband. Open your eyes. Let us consult the crystal.” Eggsy instructs, keeping his voice high and dragging like he’s in a trance.

  
The young woman opens her eyes and leans forward to peer into the crystal eagerly. The inside swirls with grey mist, unchanging. It never changes but the young woman isn’t aware of this fact.

  
Eggsy gasps dramatically and the young woman looks up, eyes wide.

  
“Did you see that?” Eggsy asks.

“See what?” the young woman responds, hanging on his every word.

“I could have sworn I saw a couple in the mist!” Eggsy lies.

“Really? Could it be a man and a woman?” the young woman asks.

“I suppose it could have been. Why?” Eggsy says.

“Could the spirits be telling me my cousin James is planning to propose?” she asks hopefully.

“I can’t give you a simple yes or no. The spirits move in mysterious ways. It is not out of the question however.” Eggsy answers.

The young woman’s face lights up and she immediately opens her little beaded bag and drops a coin into Eggsy’s upturned hat.

“Thank you Master Unwin,” the young woman cries, “Thank you!”

She disappears from the room, leaving Eggsy alone and waiting for the next person. He does not have to wait long. A young man pokes his head around the door and when he sees that Eggsy is free, he sits down opposite.

“What can you tell me about my future?” he demands.

“It all depends on how cooperative the spirits are this evening. Take my hands.” Eggsy instructs.

The young man’s hands are clammy and it takes a lot of willpower on Eggsy’s part not to drop them immediately. He closes his eyes, draws in a breath, and sighs.

“The spirits keep showing me an image of a uniform. Do you have military aspirations?” Eggsy asks, hazarding a guess.

“No. I have no intention of joining the military.” the young man answers snottily.

“How odd. It is definitely a uniform,” Eggsy says in an effort to stick to his story,

“Perhaps the man is not you. Are you married?”

“No. I am engaged.” the young man answers.

“Yes of course! It is coming clearer now. While the young man looks like you, he is not you. Perhaps a relation?” Eggsy suggests.

“A son?” the young man asks eagerly.

“That is possible,” Eggsy agrees, “It could also be a grandson.”

“But I will have children?” the young man asks hopefully.

“The spirits are always vague but it does seem like your legacy will be carried on one way or another.” Eggsy answers.

He can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off of the young man in waves. Eggsy had a feeling that that prediction would go over well. All the upper class are obsessed with their fucking legacies. Anytime you tell them that it won’t end with them they lap it up like a cat with milk.

“Can the spirits tell me anything else?” the young man demands.

“It isn’t that simple. It isn’t as though I can send the spirits a telegram.” Eggsy explains.  
The young man seems miffed by that but he still drops some money in Eggsy’s hat.  
The rest of the evening continues in this pattern. The guests spill into the library and ask him questions in hushed tones, as if ashamed to admit their existential fear of an unpredictable future aloud.

He helps an elderly woman with a shawl wrapped around her wizened shoulders contact the spirits of her dead son. She lost him to The War. She nearly cries with relief when Eggsy assures her that her son is happy and Eggsy can’t bring himself to accept the tip she offers him at the end of the seance.

The party finally peters out around midnight. The constant flow of guests slows to a trickle, then stops. Mr. Kegley arrives after the last of the guests have either returned home or vanished into their bedrooms.

“Lady Peckham wishes me to inform you that your services were much appreciated this evening and she has sent me with your payment for the evening.” he announces and holds out an envelope to Eggsy. Eggsy smiles politely and takes the envelope from him.

“Thank you Mr. Kegley. It will take me a minute to gather my things.” Eggsy says and Mr. Kegley nods and disappears into the hallway to monitor the maids.

Eggsy rescues his coat from beneath the table, and empties the coins from his hat into his pockets. He slips both on and picks up the crystal ball that served him faithfully as prop all night.

As he moves to place it in his coat pocket for the walk home, something in the mist catches his eye. He pauses, and draws it closer to his face for a better look.

The mist swirls monotonously within the crystal and seems to deaden Eggsy’s other senses. He is drowning in swirling silver mist. His lung and eyes fill with the stuff and he can’t breathe.

Suddenly the mist lifts. In front of Eggsy is two men. Both are tall but where one has dark curls, the other is blad. Their heads are bent over a file. They are deep in conversation about something. Eggsy thinks he hears the name Harry but it’s muffled as if they’re speaking into a pillow.

_Master Unwin._

“Master Unwin!”

Eggsy surfaces with a gasp and blinks to clear his vision. Mr. Kegley is standing in front of him with a small frown.

“Master Unwin are you quite alright? I can rouse Doctor Haverford if you feel ill.” Mr. Kegley offers.

“No. No I’m fine.” Eggsy answers, “Thank you.”

For once the cool night air doesn’t do much to clear his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry wrinkles his nose and brushes ineffectually at his overcoat - it’s not even the same coat he wore the night before, but he could swear that the stench of incense and opium is still clinging to him. The stifling, cloying air of the Tube platform which is quickly clouding with steam from the engine pulling the underground coach certainly doesn’t help. Neither does the scowl clenching up Merlin’s entire face as he waits for Harry’s arrival.

“You’re late,” Merlin observes. To most people Merlin’s words would sound wry and his scowl put upon, but Harry is not most people. Harry knows that scowl, and he knows the way Merlin’s knuckles are white and clenched too tight around the edges of the clipboard clutched to his chest.

“Fashionably so,” Harry quips teasingly, shaking the wrinkles out of his trousers absently as he crosses the narrow platform. As soon as he’s close enough to not quite brush against Merlin’s shoulder he pauses, his voice lowered even though they’re the only ones present. “You look terrible,” he murmurs. A part of him hates the necessity, but there’s still a sort of thrill to this, to hidden whispers and subtle looks passed between them. “I missed you last night.”

He watches as the muscle in Merlin’s jaw tightens and tics, almost close enough to lean in and kiss the stubbled skin. It’s a sweet and almost intolerable ache to know that he can’t. “Perhaps, if you arrived to work on time, you’d find out why.” Merlin’s retort is chilled, but the clenched knuckles of his hand just barely brush against Harry’s forearm as he turns to lead the way off of the platform.

Harry follows Merlin without a word, automatically cataloguing Merlin’s every move as they make their way into the boardroom. Arthur is the only one present, sitting stiffly in his chair at the head of the table. He makes some quip as Harry takes his own seat, but Harry ignores it, letting his mouth shape the expected response out of long habit. His attention is still focused on Merlin, who has come to a stop in front of the ancient, warped mirror that takes the center place on the long wall running alongside the table. 

Harry’s own report is brief - a long dull evening slumming it in the sorts of places that would mortify his mother and wasting coins on charlatans and conmen. None of them were even good enough to make it entertaining. It was the sort of drudge work that was exciting back when Harry was in his twenties, but now it’s dull and depressing. Too many young men who came back from the war incomplete, too many women left alone and destitute, all trying to lose themselves in gutters and smoke filled dens of inequity. Overall, it had been a frustrating and fruitless evening and Harry makes his displeasure at being given such an amateur assignment well known.

Arthur declares Harry’s complaint noted with an expression that says he’s privately amused by Harry’s discontent. Merlin waits patiently, looking serious and thoroughly unamused - which gives even more cause for Harry’s rising concern, because usually Merlin delights in Harry’s grumbling.

The reason for Merlin’s ill humor immediately becomes clear when it’s his turn to report. He waves his hand and the tarnished surface of the mirror ripples and shifts to a page from a Swiss newspaper; Harry’s Swiss isn’t perfect, but he know enough to pick out the relevant words.

“Spontaneous combustion?” Harry asks with a raised eyebrow.

Merlin gives him a dower look. “There’s no such thing as spontaneous combustion.”

“A spell gone out of hand?” Harry suggests - it wouldn’t be the first time. “Or a summoning of some sort?”

Merlin’s lips purse. “We don’t know,” he reports grimly.

“Do we know the identity of the… victim?” Arthur interjects.

“Lancelot,” Merlin answers, the single word heavy rolling off of his tongue and hanging in the air between the three of them. “He was investigating the disappearance of an academic. One Professor Arnold, a pioneer in…  _ parapsychology _ .” Merlin’s words drip with disdain and Harry flashes back to the many rants he suffered through about the  _ pretension _ and  _ embarrassing inaccuracy _ of the recently renamed  _ psychical researchers _ .

Still, the news weighs heavily on Harry. Lancelot had been a good hunter, and he’d brought down many dangerous sorcerers in his relatively short time with the Kingsman. “Any leads on the culprit?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat unconsciously.

“Bors will investigate,” Arthur says, and there’s something in his voice that almost makes Harry startle. “He’s just finished up in Munich, hasn’t he?”

“He has,” Merlin confirms. “I will have him rerouted, he can be onsite in a couple of hours.”

“Excellent.” Arthur nods with all the air of an issue closed.

“I could go,” Harry offers, something instinctive pushing the words out from between his lips before he can think them through. “I do have experience with-”

“No,” Arthur cuts him off before he can even finish his sentence. “Bors will handle it.” Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur continues before he can formulate any words. “I have a different task for you.”

Harry sits back in his chair and raises an eyebrow.

Arthur makes an imperious gesture and Merlin flicks his fingers at the mirror again. The image twists and distorts, a swirl of mist clouding the screen. Through the mist the silhouette of a young man becomes just barely visible, too cloudy and indistinct to determine anything more than slicked back hair and a square jaw.

“A new power is awakening,” Arthur says grandly.

“We don’t know who he is yet,” Merlin says, eyeing the cloudy mirror as though he can glare the image into fully revealing itself. “Only that his powers are just beginning to develop, and that he’s operating within the city.”

“In London?” Harry steeples his finger, squinting at the image with serious consideration. “It’s been quite a while since we had any strong powers show up so close to home.”

“This is serious,” Arthur says, his voice heavy with caution.

Harry draws his gaze away from the mirror reluctantly to tilt his head toward Arthur. “How powerful?” he asks.

“It’s impossible to say for certain yet,” Merlin interjects.

Arthur leans forward in his chair, holding Harry’s gaze as though Merlin hadn’t spoken at all. “The kind of power that makes Grigori Rasputin look like a roadside peddler.”

Harry sits quietly for a long moment, digesting that declaration. “Well,” he says finally, breaking the tense silence with a level of quippy jovalty that is only partially forced, “I had better get hunting then.”

 

***

Once they’re dismissed, Harry follows Merlin without a word back to Merlin’s office. 

“You should-” Merlin starts, but Harry doesn’t let him finish. As soon as the door is firmly closed and locked behind them Harry presses forward, pushing all the way into Merlin’s personal space and cupping his face in both hands.

“You really do look dreadful,” Harry says, his voice low out of habit even though the office is thoroughly soundproofed. Merlin huffs, looking put upon, but he doesn’t pull away from Harry’s touch. “You were with him when it happened, weren’t you?”

Merlin’s eyes close for just a moment, and from this distance it’s painfully obvious how pale he is, shaky around the edges. “I felt it,” he admits. “But I didn’t see anything.”

Harry pulls Merlin all the way into his arms, tugging Merlin in tight against his chest and tucking Merlin’s face down against the soft fabric covering his shoulder. It’s awkward, Merlin’s glasses digging into Harry’s shoulder, and they shouldn’t be doing this, they never do outside of the privacy of Harry’s - their - house. But Harry can’t resist, not when he knows how painful it must have been for Merlin to feel Lancelot’s death.

But Merlin is stronger than Harry, he always has been, and after only a few seconds he pulls away out of Harry’s embrace. Merlin doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes right away, his hands smoothing Harry’s lapels shakily before he lets them drop and turns toward his desk. “Nothing to do about it now,” he says brusquely, though he has to clear his throat before he can get the words out properly. “We both have work to do.”

Harry has to ball his hands into fists and shove them deep into his pockets to resist the urge to reach out to Merlin again. “Yes, of course,” he agrees, forcing his mind back to the task on hand. “So, this boy I’m looking for. I don’t suppose you can point me in the right direction?”

Merlin gives him a crooked little smile over his shoulder. “That would be cheating, Agent Galahad,” he says, and the levity isn’t entirely forced.

“Just as well.” Harry shrugs, only slightly more forced than Merlin. “I’d hate to lose out on any of the fun.”

Merlin hums in distracted agreement, his head already buried in one of the many, many filing cabinets lining the walls of his office. Harry waits patiently, absently spinning the brim of his hat between his hands, until Merlin emerges from the depths of the cabinet. He’s holding a rectangular leather box in his hand and he offers it out to Harry. Harry takes it with a raised eyebrow, opening the lid of the case to find a pair of round, horn-rimmed glasses. 

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, darling?” Harry asks, picking up the glasses carefully to examine them.

“Put them on,” Merlin instructs. He leans back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry does as he’s told, blinking and shaking his head slightly at the unfamiliar weight settling onto his face. Then he looks at Merlin and blinks again - there’s a thick purple light surrounding Merlin. For a second, Harry could swear it’s almost blinding, but then his eyes finish adjusting and it’s just a dull, pulsing glow, like the flicker of a candle cast off of Merlin’s skin. “What am I seeing?” Harry asks. He takes the glasses off and puts them back on again, just to check - without the glasses, the room is normal, just Merlin, but with the glasses the purple glow is undeniable.

Merlin, as soon as Harry gets over his surprise enough to actually look at Merlin’s face again, is looking distinctly smug. “Magic,” he says simply. 

Harry doesn’t bother asking how Merlin got them to work, questions like that usually just leave him with a headache. “And this isn’t cheating?” he asks, adjusting the glasses until they rest comfortably on his face and tilting his head at Merlin.

“Just a tool for your toolbox,” Merlin responds blithely. 

A tool. A tool to go along with the anti-curse charms woven into the fabric of Harry’s suits and canopy of his umbrella, the lighter that illuminates spell residue, and the pen that writes its message on the notepad sitting on Merlin’s desk no matter where in the world Harry is when he uses it.

“It won’t help you find a dabbler,” Merlin says. “And I haven’t had the chance to test it on someone receiving power from an outside source yet. But anyone with innate abilities, the more powerful they are, the brighter they’ll be.”

Harry grins, unable to resists a swell of pride at Merlin’s brilliance. “I dare say these will come in handy,” he comments, his pleasure and gratitude implicit in the words.

“You’d best get going,” Merlin prompts. “I don’t think the boy knows what kind of power he’s holding yet, but now that he’s been detected it’s only a matter of time. And it’s best that you get to him before-” Merlin pauses, his lips twitching, but he doesn’t actually need to finish that sentence; they’re both fully aware of the stakes when it comes to uncontrolled magic.

“Don’t be late for dinner,” Harry says by way of farewell as he turns toward the door - he could swear he hears Merlin snort behind his back.

 

***

The Kingsman Secret Service was born in the mid-seventeenth century in the wake of Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne’s ill-begotten crusade. The founder of the Kingsman was a follower of Hopkins for a brief period, that is, until he’d realized that Hopkins wouldn’t know true magic if it bit him on the nose - which it had, once or twice. 

Harry Hart had been recruited to the Service upon his return from a brief but memorable stint in South Africa, courtesy of His Majesty’s Royal Army. It had been an undeniable shock to discover that magic was, in fact, real; but a thrilling one nonetheless. He’d taken to the Service, in his mentor’s words, like a bird to wing - hesitantly at first, and then all at once.

The purpose of the Kingsman, according to its original charter, is to find and hand over to the Crown practitioners of magic who may prove to be a threat to the kingdom or her populace. For a price, of course. Matthew Hopkins had never received the commission from Parliament that he’d wanted, and technically, neither did the Kingsman. But the Kingsman prefer to work independently, and they find working from the shadows far more effective than Hopkins’ brand of showboating and notoriety. The Kingsman worked quietly for centuries, neutralizing dangerous magical practitioners and collecting compensation from the Crown - off the books.

The Kingsman classify three different types of practitioners: those who somehow stumbled across actual magical spells in some book or through word of mouth - often called ‘dabblers’; those who had made a deal with some kind of spirit or supernatural entity to gain power; and the innate, those born with magical gifts. Though the word gift doesn’t appear in any of the Kingsman files until fairly recently as the majority of their predecessors preferred the term ‘cursed’. 

But the twentieth century is proving to be a time of change, right from the very beginning. To Harry’s benefit, as it turned out.

Harry hadn’t known, when he was first recruited, that he was stepping into an organization divided. Change was coming, and the old guard - as they usually do - was fighting it. Magic was gaining popularity, under the new name of  _ spiritualism _ , in a way that it hadn’t in centuries, possibly since before the spread of Christianity. Communing with the dead became fashionable; fortune tellers and psychics were drawn out of their wagons and smoke filled hovels to serve as entertainment in gouche parlors draped with black lace. Harry Houdini mesmerized thousands, and academics began conducting experiments, founding  _ Societies for Psychical Research _ and _ Committees on Haunted Houses _ . Of course, most of the  _ Spiritualists _ and those who studied them were charlatans and just as bad at identifying real magic as Matthew Hopkins had been. But the Kingsman knew what those others did not - real magic was growing, spreading across Europe at an unprecedented rate. 

But Harry had been young, newly inducted into the mysteries of the supernatural and bolstered by the thrill of the hunt. He’d had no care for politics, no knowledge of the currents of change running through the Service. Not until he himself ended up swept up in them, that is.

On Harry’s first solo hunt he hadn’t found the mad, devil worshipping magician he’d been taught to expect. He’d found a young man, only a few years younger than himself, with powers he didn’t understand and couldn’t control. Half of the young man’s family were convinced he needed an exorcism, and the other half were intent on sending him away to a madhouse. Because of dreams, that just happened to come true… and one or two, small, accidental fires. Harry had done his job, he’d brought the young man in - alive, which was an option left up to the hunter’s discretion in those days. But he hadn’t brought the man in to headquarters like he was supposed to, Harry had brought him to his mentor, and Chester King had agreed to advocate on both of their behalfs.

Chester King - Agent Gawain in those days - was leading the internal revolution. He and his supporters argued that they had to keep up with the times, to respond to the rapid growth of magic, and that the best way to do so would be to take the fighting fire with fire approach. There’s a difference, King argued, between magic and evil. That certain practitioners - ones with limited power, ones who came by their power ‘honestly’ - could help them fight the true evil. That under the right circumstances, magic could prove to be not only a rising tide that they have to fight against, but a tool which they can use to their benefit.

In the end, Chester King won. The old guard gave in - or died out - and Harry’s first bounty was never handed over to the Crown. Instead, the young man was given books to study - ancient books that the Service had confiscated and stored over the centuries - he’d learned to control his powers, and he’d been given a new title to denote his place in the Service. A title he’d taken to so thoroughly that he’d abandoned his given name, and the cruelty of the family that had given it to him. He’d devoted his life to not just using his powers to guide the Kingsman’s Knights toward evil magic users, but to building them tools and weapons, to training other gifted men and women who were offered the chance to assist the Service.

Chester King sits at the head of the Kingsman table now. The Kingsman support staff is full of low level psychics and medical staff who can work small wonders. And Harry is a well seasoned hunter carrying an arsenal of magically powered tools and weapons. He doesn’t know what would have happened to Merlin if they hadn’t gone to Chester King that night decades ago - he tries not to think about it - but if that one decision had saved Merlin’s life, had given him a new life all together, well, Merlin’s more than repaid Harry for that a hundred times over.

Magic may have brought a wondrous gift into Harry’s personal life, may have filled him with purpose in more than one way. But magic is still growing stronger than ever. And each gifted practitioner with pure intentions is wildly outnumbered by those who are power hungry, corrupt, or simply out of control. Harry can only hope that he can find this new young man before his power grows too big. Before it’s too late.


	3. Chapter 3

The men are back. The dark-haired man from before is wearing glasses now. His surroundings are hazy but he appears to be sitting, possibly at a table. The bald man is lent over next to the dark haired man, pointing at something that they’re both looking at.  
The dark-haired man’s mouth moves like he’s speaking but no sound comes out.   
Then, as if echoing from far away, “This is vague.”  
The dark haired man lifts his hand as if turning a page. The rustle of papers fades into existence in sharp contrast to the haze surrounding the two men. It’s like they’re caught in a swirl of smoke. The bald man tilts his head as if catching a sound just on the edge of hearing. His head snaps up and his eyes lock.  
Eggsy startles awake with a shuddering gasp. He sits bolt upright in bed and he wipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. He’s soaked to the skin with sweat and the sun outside is barely rising. He takes a few deep breaths to settle his nerves.  
The building is still mostly asleep, factory workers have long since left for their shifts. Eggsy swings out of bed and stumbles across to the wash basin. He splashes his face and blinks a few times to clear his vision.  
The visions, dreams, whatever the hell they are, that started at Lady Peckham’s party have gotten worse the passed few weeks. They are never terribly clear. Usually it involves the two men he has been seeing. Once or twice they involved Roxy. He saw flashes of her on her wedding day. He saw a few involving Dean but he was able to chalk that up to his usual brand of terrible just invading the dreams.  
It’s been getting worse though. Eggsy hasn’t had an uninterrupted night’s sleep in ages. If this goes on much longer he thinks he might go quite mad.   
He runs the comb through his hair, making sure it is rumple free. If his hands are shaking he just ignores it. He dresses for the day in a daze. He has no plans but he can’t just sit around until he can go visit his mother and Daisy in the evening.  
The doorbell buzzes downstairs and Eggsy looks out the window. Roxy waves up at him from the pavement.  
“Be right down!” Eggsy calls.  
It is honestly a huge relief to see her. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He doesn’t want to think about the men who keep filtering into his mind unbidden. Roxy is always good at making him forget. Sometimes a little too good. She’s quite a little scandal in the making.  
Eggsy puts on his cap and coat and heads downstairs. He opens the door to his building, and grins at Roxy.  
“Hello handsome.” she greets with a laugh.  
“How you doing Rox?” Eggsy asks and offers her his arm.  
Roxy slides her arm into his and leads the way down the pavement, “I was bored so I came to see you. I was thinking we could go to The Jaded Hand.”  
“You know a lotta people are gonna talk.” Eggsy says  
“What about?” Roxy asks and leads Eggsy across the street, dodging motor carriages and regular carriages alike.  
“Lady Roxanne Morton, Daughter of the Earl Morton, seen visiting an establishment of ill repute with a mysterious young man on her arm.” Eggsy replies.  
Roxy shrugs, uncaring, “What are they going to do? Tell my fiance?”  
Eggsy has to admit she has a point. The only person more inclined to the charms of their own gender than Roxy, is her fiance Charlie. The marriage is a sham and they both know it.  
“Alright. The Jaded Hand it is.” Eggsy agrees  
Roxy leads them down the cobbled street without any fuss at the puddles that seem to form in every dip in the stone. The shorter hemline and loose fit of her dress allows it to float without the fear of dragging.  
They reach The Jaded Hand. The sign is worn wood with paint so faded only the faint outline of a hand remains. The front window is obscured by kitsch velvet drapes. When the door opens smoke streams out from the patron’s cigarettes and pipes.  
Roxy sticks out like a sore thumb in this environment. Her clothes are too light, too clean, and too well tailored. Her hair is too artfully done. Despite that, her blatant confidence sends people scurrying.  
She nabs them a seat at the bar and glances around curiously, “So who here can give you a run for your money?” she asks Eggsy under her breath.  
Eggsy glances around the room. He doesn’t know many of the people there. There’s a young woman with a set of tarot cards who has a shawl artfully wrapped around her bare shoulders. A man in the corner has his eyes closed, and his head tilted up to the ceiling. He’s obviously trying to convince any wayward non practitioner that wanders in that he is in a trance.  
Eggsy turns back to Roxy with a small shrug, “Dunno. Can’t tell until they start talking to customers. Let's get a drink.”  
They place their orders and wait for the bartender to pour them. The young woman with a shawl approaches Roxy with a sultry grin while they wait, “Would you like me to read your tarot miss?”  
The bartender passes them their drinks and Roxy downs her whiskey in one go, “That is awfully kind of you but I already have a psychic on hand. He’s quite good.”  
She reaches over and gives Eggsy’s arm a squeeze that looks affectionate to anyone watching but Eggsy can feel the hint of nails against his skin. He has to stifle a laugh at her irritation. Leave it to Roxy to surround herself with the weird intentionally and be annoyed by the whole affair.  
The young woman slinks away and sulks next to the man in a fake trance.  
Eggsy and Roxy spend the day at The Jaded Hand. Eggsy doesn’t have anywhere to be until the seance for Lady Levinson tomorrow afternoon. So they pack away drinks like they are nothing. Eggsy stops around three but Roxy keeps at it for a few more rounds. Eggsy does not look forward to trying to get her home.  
The door of The Jaded Hand swings open to admit another patron. Eggsy turns his head out of mild curiosity. No one has come in since he sat with Roxy. Generally anyone who doesn’t actively practice some form of spiritualism avoids this place like the plague.  
For a second he swears he is seeing double. Or perhaps nodded off against the counter and is having another one of those dreams.  
There’s a man approaching the bar. His hair is dark and slightly wavy. His nose is bedecked with a pair of horn rimmed glasses. Eggsy conjures the image of the men from his dreams. The ghostly version of the dark haired man from his vision slots perfectly over the man taking a seat at the bar and ordering a drink in an accent so crisp it rivals Roxy’s.  
Eggsy breaks out in a cold sweat. His heart pounds so hard he feels like it could break his ribs. His fingernails dig into the scarred wood of the bar.  
Roxy frowns and sits up straighter, “Eggsy?” she asks softly like she’s speaking to a frightened animal.  
“I know him.” Eggsy says breathlessly.  
“Who,” Roxy glances around and her eyes land on the dark haired man sipping his scotch, “Him? No offence but how?”  
“I’ve seen him before,” Eggsy says faintly and turns wild-eyed to Roxy, “This is going to sound mad but I think I been dreaming bout him.”  
Roxy places her soft hands on top of Eggsy’s and carefully prys his fingers from the edge of the bar. She rubs gentle circles into his wrists to calm him.  
“Why don’t I go talk to him? See what I can find out?” Roxy offers.  
Eggsy nods mutely. There is no way they can be the same person. He must be transferring the man from his dreams on to the first dark haired he’s seen since they started.  
Roxy slips from her stool and moves down to the corner of the bar where the man is sitting. She smiles charmingly at him and he turns on his seat to regard her properly.  
“Lady Roxanne Morton,” she greets, “And you are?”  
“Harry Hart.” the dark haired man introduces himself. Eggsy shudders. Harry was the name in the vision he had at Lady Peckham’s party.  
“Can I ask what you are doing here? You seem to stand out among these types.” Roxy asks.  
“If you will excuse the familiarity, my lady, you don’t seem to be the type to be here either.” Harry responds and swirls his drink around the glass.  
“Fair point,” Roxy says with a laugh, “But I am still curious.”  
Harry inclines his head in recognition of her argument, “Perhaps you can help me. I have heard there is a psychic who is growing in demand. They his visions are unparalleled. Could you point me in the right direction?”  
“No. I am afraid I am not a believer in all this mysticism. I just enjoy the company.” Roxy explains.   
“Well if you spend time with this company perhaps you'll know him by name if not reputation. I'm looking for someone named Gary.”  
“I think if you ask the man who reads tea leaves he can point you in the right direction.” Roxy answers and gestures to the table in the corner.   
Harry immediately rises off his stool. He offers Roxy a polite goodbye, then weaves through the tables to get to the man who reads tea leaves. Roxy moves to join Eggsy back at their spot.  
“He was just looking for an excellent psychic. He mentioned you by name. Is it possible that you saw him at one of the parties you work?” Roxy says  
“No. Rox. I swear I dreamt about him.” Eggsy insists.  
“Well if you saw him at a party then it would make sense he could come up in your dreams. You are rather drunk.” Roxy says,trying to rationalize.  
“Oi. You had more than me. If I’m drunk you are fucking sloshed.” Eggsy grumbles.  
Roxy frowns and takes stock of herself. She comes to agreement with Eggsy. She is definitely Half-seas over. She stands up and drags Eggsy off his stool.   
“We should go. If he's looking for you I don't want to find out why.” Roxy says   
They stumble out on to the pavement and Roxy flags down a motor carriage. She gives the address of Eggsy’s building.  
The driver pulls away and begins the drive back to Eggsy’s flat. Roxy sinks back in her seat and closes her eyes for a few seconds. Eggsy can’t keep quiet however.  
“Hey Roxy?” he asks  
“Mmmm?” Roxy responds sleepily.  
“I know I been saying that all this psychic nonsense is bull shit. But what if some people can actually do it?”  
“Do what?”  
“See things. What if I can see things? I swear that bloke at the bar was in my dream and I ain’t ever seen him before. Maybe I can actually see.” Eggsy says.  
Roxy groans and sits up properly. She turns to look at him in the eye, “You are pissed Eggsy Unwin and you are acting totally ridiculous. There is no such thing as psychics. It is entirely possible you saw him at a party and he got your name for one of his own.”  
“If you thought that was the case then how come we left like we did?”  
“Because before you started doing the psychic thing you were in quite a bit of trouble concerning Mr. Baker. Someone that well off could be with the police and I don't want my dearest friend going to jail.” Roxy explains  
“Maybe you’re right. I did have quite a lot to drink.”  
The motor carriage stops and they both stumble out again. Roxy totters down the street a little way and climbs into her own motor carriage where her chauffeur has been waiting for her all day. She blows Eggsy a kiss as they drive away.  
Eggsy walks to his mother’s house to clear his head. He’s missed her and his little sister these last few weeks. He’s been so busy with parties lately he hasn’t had time to go see them.   
Roxy is right. There are no such things as psychics. He just had one too many drinks on not enough food and sleep. After an evening holding Daisy, and eating his mother’s cooking, he is going to sleep like a baby and in the morning he will have forgotten all about his incident today.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s utterly hopeless,” Harry pronounces as he slumps dramatically into his desk chair. He lets his head fall against the high wooden back of the chair with a soft thump and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose tiredly.

“Now don’t say that,” Merlin chides. “I hate to see you succumb to despair.” Merlin is teasing him, Harry is fully aware of that, and it’s a teasing that’s soft and fond. Nevertheless, Harry rolls his head enough to crack a single eye open to glare at the man. The move backfires, naturally; Merlin is dressed for the day in slacks and Harry’s favorite of his sweater collection, leaning against the doorway of Harry’s office with his shoulder braced against the door jamb and one leg crossed casually in front of the other. It can no longer be called dawn, but the early morning light is still soft, streaming in through the curtains covering the double doors on the far side of Harry’s office and it casts Merlin in a perfect contrast of shadow and gentle glow.

“Two weeks, Merlin,” Harry complains, forcing his dry and gritty eyes fully open so that his expression can convey the genuine depths of his frustration. “Two weeks and I’ve made no progress. In fact, I’d dare say that I now know  _ less _ than I did before.” 

“That’s logically impossible,” Merlin says blandly, but he’s smirking, just a treacherous little quirk of his lips. “Especially considering that you knew next to nothing from the start.”

Harry throws up his hands in a dramatic gesture as though Merlin has only proven his point. “If this boy is as powerful as Arthur claims, then tell me, how the bloody hell has no one ever heard of him?” Merlin may be fresh for the new day, but in contrast Harry is still wearing his clothes from the day before. Utterly lacking in leads of any kind, Harry’s been reduced back to spending his nights lurking in gambling halls and seedy parlors in hopes of something that might lead him to the source of this great new power Arthur is so concerned about. Frankly, he’s exhausted and at wit’s end.

Merlin pushes himself away from the door jamb and crosses the room. He circles the desk to perch on the arm of Harry’s chair, threading his long fingers through the disordered strands of Harry’s hair. “Arthur said the power is  _ coming _ ,” Merlin points out. Harry hardly cares what he’s saying, too busy soaking in the soothing touch of Merlin’s blunt fingernails scratching against his scalp. “That doesn’t mean the power is realized. The man, or boy, whoever he is, might not know his own potential yet.”

Harry grunts in wordless admission. He reaches up to catch Merlin’s hand - reluctant though he is to lose the soothing touch in his hair, it’s just as good to be able to thread his fingers through Merlin’s, to rub his thumb over the knobs of Merlin’s knuckles and press a kiss to the soft inside of Merlin’s wrist. It’s rare for them to have time like this together, after all, they have to maintain a respectable distance everywhere but inside the privacy of the house - their house, as far as Harry’s concerned, though publically Merlin has no presence here. They’re forced to spend as many nights apart as they get together, either because Harry is out hunting or because Merlin has lost himself in his work at HQ, or simply to avoid drawing undue attention. It’s a lucky chance that neither of them have meetings to attend that morning, otherwise Merlin would already be long gone.

“I suppose it’s time for a hint?” Merlin offers. There’s a softness to him when they’re alone like this, especially in the early hours of the morning - Merlin’s favorite time of day. He’s still perched on the arm of Harry’s chair, leaning lightly against Harry’s side with their hands twined together. 

“What would I do without you?” Harry murmurs, smiling up at Merlin with what is probably a ridiculously dopey sort of expression.

“Don’t shower me in too much gratitude just yet,” Merlin replies with a soft snort and a shake of his head. He pushes himself to his feet, but doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. “My sources may prove just as unhelpful as yours have been.”

“Still,” Harry insists as he lets Merlin pull him to his feet. “It’s better than spending the rest of my life chasing my own tail.”

“Well, at least you’d have a good view,” Merlin quips.

“I like this view better,” Harry answers, just as cheekily. Merlin still hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand as he leads him down the hall to the spare room at the back of the house, and Harry is absolutely sincere about his appreciation of his current view - Merlin may not favor the high fashion suits that Harry does, but he does have excellent taste when it comes to the cut of his slacks.

Merlin huffs out a laugh and shakes his head dismissively. Between the two of them, they usually refer to the back room as Merlin’s office, though it’s hardly used as such. In fact, it’s hardly used at all. Officially, it’s a spare bedroom, and the incredibly thin veneer that allows Merlin to respectably spend the night on occasion. In truth, the bed is a narrow, uncomfortable thing that has only actually been used for all of two hours before both of them had given up false pretenses and wound up in Harry’s much larger, much more comfortable bed together. Aside from the bed, the room has come to look much like Merlin’s actual office at Kingsman headquarters - a sturdy desk and a handful of overstuffed bookshelves - with the addition of some miscellaneous paraphernalia the two of them have accumulated over the years. Merlin rarely actually does any work here, but he’s confessed to Harry that he does appreciate having a space to himself in a house that otherwise shows very little of his presence.

Additionally, Merlin takes safety precautions when it comes to magic very seriously. Which is why the entire room is coated in so many wards that even Harry can feel the latent power in the air. Merlin nudges Harry over to the desk and Harry compliantly drops into the chair sitting in front of it. He watches while Merlin opens the old steamer trunk at the foot of the narrow bed and begins to rummage through it. Harry isn’t quite sure what Merlin’s plan is, but he’s too busy both appreciating the view of Merlin bent over and being relieved to have a potential new avenue of information to worry about it. 

Harry leans back in Merlin’s desk chair, rubbing at his tired and itching eyes - a man really does have his limits when it comes to late nights in smoke filled parlors and Harry certainly isn’t in his twenties any more. Harry doesn’t bother opening his eyes in response to Merlin’s soft sound of triumph; instead he waits until Merlin has come to join him at the desk. The polished wooden board that Merlin’s retrieved from the trunk sits innocuously enough on the battered surface of the old desk, but Harry knows better than to think  _ any _ of Merlin’s tools are genuinely innocuous.

“Let’s see if the spirits have something useful to offer, shall we?” Merlin prompts. He remains standing just behind Harry’s shoulder, leaning over him slightly to reach the Ouija board on the desk. He directs Harry’s hands to the smooth wooden planchette that goes with the board and Harry can’t help but to relish in the cool, calloused touch of Merlin’s hands against his own. It is very distracting, with Merlin looming over him, his chest brushing against Harry’s shoulder and his breath ghosting against Harry’s neck.

“Harry, focus,” Merlin chides, fully aware of the distraction he’s causing - and probably doing it on purpose, the bastard, if the grin in his voice is anything to go by. Distractedly, Harry notes that once this new power is dealt with he should endeavour to convince Merlin to take some time off so that they can have a holiday  _ full  _ of distractions together.

“Easier said than done,” Harry murmurs.

“I could leave you to speak with the spirits alone,” Merlin offers - an empty threat. “Although it might be difficult-”

“Considering the fact that I have no aptitude for magic whatsoever, yes, I dare say it would be incredibly difficult,” Harry grumbles. But he takes a breath, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. “Alright, how do we do this?”   


“Just close your eyes and think of what you want to know,” Merlin instructs. His hands are still covering Harry’s, both resting on the planchette as it sits on the wooden board. Harry bites his tongue to hold back a quip about the logical fallacy in that statement and does as he’s told.

He really doesn’t have much to focus on. All his knows is that, according to Arthur, somewhere in the city is a young man who is developing or about to acquire an incredibly large amount of magical power. Harry’s been given to believe that the boy is passing himself off as a psychic, but Arthur is convinced that there’s still time, that their quarry hasn’t come fully into his power yet and if they manage to find him before he does they might be able to sway him to their cause. Inversely, that if they fail to find him in time the results could be catastrophic. 

Harry’s eyes snap open when he feels the planchette beneath his fingers start to move. He glances up at Merlin reflexively, but the man’s face is crinkled with concentration and the muscles in his arms and hands are completely lax, just resting lightly on the wooden pointer. 

The piece of wood moves slowly and jerkily across the board until the transparent crystal circle set into the point rests over the ornately painted letter G. 

Followed by the letter A. 

Then the letter R.

And finally the letter Y. After that the pointer stops moving, resting still and lifeless beneath their fingers once again.

“Gary?” Harry says skeptically, putting the letters together.

“Well that’s… something,” Merlin says slowly, looking just as confounded as Harry feels. He withdraws his hands from the planchette, standing up fully with an absent stretch and a soft popping of his back.

“It’s useless, is what it is,” Harry grumbles, slumping down in the chair and going back to rubbing his aching temples.

“I suppose we could start checking city registries.” Merlin is staring down at the Ouija board with a furrow roughly the size of a canyon between his eyebrows, as though he can will the board into providing them with more information - which, as far as Harry knows, he could but he doesn’t seem inclined to try for some unknown reason.

“That could take years.” Harry doesn’t scream, Harry very carefully remains still and calm in his chair and stares at Merlin’s beautiful hands. “There must be, what… hundreds of Garys in the city? And we believe that he’s in the city  _ now _ , but that doesn’t mean he was born here, nor do we know how old he is.”

Merlin grimaces and shakes his head. “It is vague,” he concedes. He picks up the Ouija board and planchette, securing the tools back in the steamer trunk where they belong. “But it’s more than we had before. A place for you to at least start your inquires.”

“Hardly,” Harry smirks, shaking his head. “What self respecting psychic is going to be going around using the name  _ Gary _ ?”

“I wasn’t under the impression that many of them have much self respect regardless,” Merlin retorts - the penny-dreadful mediums with no actual magical talent that make up the majority of spiritualists are an endless source of derision and mockery among the Kingsman, and Merlin most of all takes the charlatans personally. 

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, cutting Merlin off before he can devolve into a rant. “All the same, Gary is hardly theatric enough to satisfy anyone in the spiritualist set - charlatan or not. If that is his Christian name it’s next to useless to us as he’ll undoubtedly be going by a pseudonym of some sort.”

“Well, there’s nothing else to be done about it now,” Merlin says. He moves in close again, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, framing Harry with them as he leans in close. “So, in the meantime, you’re going to go and get cleaned up while I cook us some breakfast. If you’re good, I may even postpone my first meeting to ensure you make it safely to bed so that you can get some rest before continuing your search.” Merlin raises an eyebrow as he speaks, leaning in close enough for Harry to feel the ghost of his breath but not quite close enough for a kiss; the innuendo, though unnecessary, is heavy in his words.

“If you insist, my dear.” Harry smiles, unable to resist surging forward the scant inch necessary to press their lips together.

***

Merlin keeps his word about the bath and breakfast. He leaves Harry to soak in a hot bath and returns some twenty minutes later with a plate of toast and savory eggs - just how Harry likes them. Harry makes a pretense at protest, just for the sake of it, but Merlin is not one to be put off and Harry isn’t actually opposed to a warm, full stomach and soft blankets anyway.

Harry is significantly less pleased with being left alone in bed, but Merlin insists he has to go to work - they currently have agents spread across six different countries on hunts, and Merlin is anticipating updates on their progress. Harry sighs and grumbles and makes his best effort to distract Merlin with eager kisses and wandering hands, but Merlin can only be detained for so long before he forcibly removes himself from the bedroom and Harry is left all by his lonesome.

In reality, it’s just as well. Harry is exhausted, having been unable to get a proper night’s sleep since Arthur had given him his latest mission. And so the sun is edging past noon when he eventually rouses himself again. The food and rest - and attention from his beloved - have done him good, but even better he is filled with a renewed sense of purpose. The name Gary may not be  _ much _ to go on, but, despite his grumpy complaints to Merlin earlier, it certainly is more than he’d had before. 

He drags himself out of bed, freshens up, and dresses in a clean suit. He then takes the time to peruse the day’s newspapers over a late lunch and a sizeable mug of tea. Absently he notes a report on a suspicious fire in Shropshire and an apparent murder/suicide near Trafalgar Square - no doubt Merlin has already seen the reports, but Harry will mention them when he gets the chance just in case, something about the incidents standing out to him.

Eventually he has to make a decision. As he sees it, there are two choice before him; either he can head to the registry and spend perhap the next decade of his life digging through files in the vain hope that he  _ might _ find and identify record of the correct Gary, or he can take to the streets and parlors once again with at least something concrete to direct his inquires. Neither option sounds particularly appealing, but over the course of his career he’s found street rumors and word of mouth to be among the best tools in a hunter’s kit. And besides, Harry really, really hates digging through musty old records.

The Jaded Hand ends up being his third stop - he first meanders his way down the colloquially known Fool’s Gold Row where conmen and hucksters line the streets with their stands and props to make their money off of tourists and the particularly naive, then he puts in a brief appearance at Madame Trilda’s where delights both physical and spiritual are readily available for those with a few spare coins and loose morals. In comparison, the Jaded Hand is almost a respectable place, at least, as far as Harry is concerned. The Hand is a quiet, smokey pub just off of a main thoroughfare that offers a selection of cheap ales and thrives by luring the gullible and those from out of town in from the posh shops around the corner.

Unlike most Spiritualist pubs, the Jaded Hand is relatively clean, despite the faded paint and spotted velvet curtains. It’s the sort of place where mediums come mainly to take a break, eager to snap up any easy pickings that might wander in but more interested in discussing business and tricks of the trade with their own kind or having a quiet tankard of ale by themselves. 

On this particular day, Harry finds himself feeling strangely at home in the pub. It’s quiet, only a handful of patrons slouched in the corners - a man faking a hypnotic trance, a women poking intently at some tea leaves and muttering to herself, a trio of very old men trading tall tales of the good old days around a scarred wooden table. Even in his well tailored suit and precisely coiffed hair, Harry isn’t the most unusual patron of the pub; after a cursory glance around to assess his surrounding his gaze immediately settles on the dazzling figure of the young Lady Morton perched at the bar with a young man of about her same age. Harry has never been introduced to the young woman, though her uncle is a member of the Service in excellent standing and he speaks very highly of her accomplishments - and, perhaps even more fondly, of her rabble rousing. But as interesting as Lady Morton’s presence is, Harry’s attention is quickly drawn to the young man at her side.

He’s a handsome man, to be certain, a strong jaw and bright eyes that are brought to life with an air of confidence and stubbornness. He also happens to be the only person in the entire room that flickers with an aura of genuine mysticism when Harry looks at him through Merlin’s specially treated glasses - the glasses are still a prototype, and they are already the third pair that Merlin has pushed on him in the past couple of weeks. Merlin insists that he’s still working out the kinks, that he’s certain he can improve them and find a way to increase the range of magic that they can detect. Merlin’s technical ramblings that Harry had only partially understood flash through his mind as he registers and then discards the way that this particular young man flashes a bright silver for just a moment before the aura all but vanishes. A similar occurrence had happened several times when he looked a Merlin through the glasses - though Merlin’s energy displays as a vibrant purple rather than this young man’s silver - and Merlin had dismissed it as a fault in the spellwork on the glasses that he hasn’t been able to work out yet whenever Harry mentioned it. 

Harry keeps the two in the corner of his vision all the same as he crosses over to the bar and orders a pint. He perches on a stool not quite at the far end of the bar, positioned just so that he can keep both the door and Lady Morton with her companion in his sights. It’s perhaps more of a relief than it should be to wrap his hand around the cool glass and take a sip of the crisp ale - Harry has developed a refined palate by necessity, but in his heart of hearts he is a man of simple tastes that relishes in the hardy homebrewed stock of this particular establishment.

Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone, but he find himself so caught up in the simple pleasure of a sturdy barstool and a good ale that he nearly startles when Lady Morton slides onto the stool next to his and introduces herself. It takes him perhaps a beat too long to respond, the back of his brain scrambling to remember if there had ever been an occasion where they  _ had _ actually met before and trying to guess at what she could possibly want with him. He thinks perhaps that she had noticed the extra moment of attention he’d paid to her when he first entered the pub, but her probing question about his presence in the bar leads his thinking in another direction. He bypasses her question smoothly, returning it in kind with his best air of casual charm. Despite his words, he isn’t actually all that surprised by her presence - a strange coincidence that she happens to be in  _ this particular _ pub, perhaps, but he is well aware that she is a woman ahead of their time and her uncle, Percival, has more than once made passing suggestion on the idea of someday recruiting her into the Service, tradition be damned.

She isn’t easily put off, and Harry takes a moment to consider her under the guise of sipping from his drink. He likes her instinctively, and mentally notes that if Percival ever actually does put her forward as a Candidate he will most certainly back the recommendation. But that is not his concern at the moment; he allows his eyes to slide past her toward the young man now hunched over the far end of the battered wooden bar. The lad is staring a little too intently at the bottom of his glass, but he keeps shooting sideways glances at them and Harry could swear he looks almost nervous. Through the lenses of the glasses, the boy is flickering bright and dim like a candle sitting next to an open window, a sort of restless energy swirling around him.

“Perhaps you can help me,” Harry says, pulling his attention back to the keen young woman sitting before him. “I have heard there is a psychic who is growing in demand. They says his visions are unparalleled.” Harry is guessing. After all, he can’t be certain that Gary is broadcasting himself as a psychic, or whether or not he’s particularly successful at it - genuine powers are one thing, but in order to actually make it in the business of Spiritualism one must also be an effective showman. But it is a fairly safe bet, given that psychics are a dime a dozen these days and with the Great War still so tragically fresh in the lives of so many people, visions and communication with the dead are among the skills in greatest demand by society. “Could you point me in the right direction?” It’s a long shot, but one with twofold benefits; as much a test of young Lady Morton as anything else. 

Lady Morton laughs and tosses her head carelessly. “No. I am afraid I am not a believer in all this mysticism,” she declares dismissively, and Harry has to work to bite back a laugh at the irony considering both her uncle and the undeniable gift that her current companion possesses. “I just enjoy the company,” she explains with a charming smile. That, too, Harry recognizes. That is the look of a young woman who refuses to be trapped by the expectations of society and Harry determines that if Percival doesn’t put her forward as a Candidate he’ll do so himself as soon as the opportunity arises. 

“Well, if you spend time with this company perhaps you’ll know him by name, if not by reputation,” Harry presses. He’s watching her closely, studying her microexpressions for any hint of recognition or deception, but he’s also watching her companion who is most definitely listening in even though he looks like he’s contemplating drowning himself in his ale. “I’m looking for someone named Gary.”

Lady Morton’s eyelashes flutter, just slightly, before she regains control of her expression; the young man, on the other hand, nearly spills his drink.

“I think if you ask the man who reads tea leaves he can point you in the right direction,” Lady Morton says, a little too quickly as she recovers herself. She gestures to a table in the corner where a toothless man with some strategically placed fake moles is compulsively polishing an antique tea set. 

Even without the assistance of the glasses, Harry would know at a glance that that particular man wouldn’t be able to find a genuine vision if it was tied to his nose with a string, but nevertheless he nods a polite thanks and bids Lady Morton good day before rising from his stool and taking his half empty drink over to the tea reader’s table. He strikes up a conversation with the man that may as well be a script - it demands very little of his attention and is utter banality. But it’s a good cover so he slides the man a few coins and lets him patter away about fortunes and great loves while watching Lady Morton out of the corner of his eye.

She returns to her companion’s side and seems to be reassuring him. The lad still seems distressed, but the pair finish their drinks in a jovial manner before stumbling out of the pub and out onto the street. Harry quickly shoves another coin at the tea reader to shut him up and rises to follow the pair. They climb into the cab of a motor carriage, but the streets are busy and clogged enough that Harry has no trouble following them on foot. The carriage stops in front of a dilapidated tenement building where Lady Morton gives the lad a fond farewell before tripping off to her waiting chauffeur. The young man, for his part, disappears into the building, only to come back out a short while later dressed in fresh clothes, and sets off at an easy stroll down the street.

Harry watches the lad go from behind a newspaper while lurking on the opposite corner. He eyes the tenement building, then the young man’s retreating back, but ultimately decides that the building is more likely to provide valuable information than spending his evening wondering around London on the boy’s trail.

Besides, it’s been a while since Harry had the opportunity to exercise his lockpicking skills.

***

“Why in god’s name did I let you talk me into this?” Merlin grumbles bitterly. He ignores the extended hand of the footman as he climbs down from the most elegant of Kingsman’s many - now nearly obsolete - carriages in Harry’s wake.

Harry, for his part, is almost obnoxiously cheerful - no doubt because of the opportunity to show off his new suit of the latest fashion as much as because of the breakthrough in his hunt. Harry settles his tall, narrow top hat onto his slicked back curls and fusses with his new single breasted tuxedo jacket as though brushing invisible dust from the deep navy blue fabric. The accented cuffs are a soft ivory satin that perfectly matches his waistcoat and he is the very picture of suave modern fashion from the two inch brim of his top hat, through his striped navy trousers and all the way down to his shiny oxford shoes.

Merlin can’t look at him for too long or else he’ll be unavoidably swayed from his stubbornly bad mood by how radiantly handsome his partner looks. It is disgustingly unfair.

“Oh, stop looking so dour, darling,” Harry murmurs. He pauses at the edge of the street to pull Merlin into a pocket of shadows. Once there, he straightens Merlin’s bowtie and fusses with the tuck of his stiff, starched bib; likely he would have gone on messing with Merlin’s clothes for an unseemly amount of time if Merlin didn’t brush him off irritably. 

“I mean it, Hart,” Merlin hisses, “this is your business, your job, and I can’t see any reason for my presence here.” They both know that that isn’t quite true, but Merlin is stubbornly clinging to his sour mood by his fingernails.

“Well,” Harry replies, with an over abundance of patience, “seeing as there have been no changes to the situation since we discussed this last night, and this morning, and while we will getting dressed, I’ll simply repeat the summary for you so that we can get on with it. You are here, my love, because  _ if _ this young man is, in fact, the great power Arthur has me running myself ragged looking for, then you are the best suited not only to identifying him but also to combating his powers should he decide to put up a fight. And, on the other hand, if he  _ isn’t _ the particular young man we’re looking for, I still suspect him to be a young man of not inconsiderable gifts who may be of great use to the Service. And evaluating that sort of thing is, as it happens,  _ precisely _ your job.” Harry grins, too bright and too cheerful as he gives Merlin one more firm clap on the shoulder before turning to drag him up the steps toward the brilliantly lit mansion. “And besides,” he adds over his shoulder, “it’ll do you good to be out in society for once.”

“There’s a reason I don’t go out in society,” Merlin mutters under his breath, though he knows full well that Harry can hear him just fine. “I  _ hate _ society.” Even with Harry’s back turned, Merlin can  _ feel _ the smugness radiating off of Harry as he reluctantly trails the older man up the sweeping front steps.

Lady Levinson is a grand and stately Dame who has taken to her twilight years with a surprising penchant for hosting ruckus parties. She is saved from being an object of scandal only by her advanced age, and the fact that her family tree can - reportedly - be traced back to Henry I. She is also afforded some lenience when it comes to her more eccentric interests by the fact that she’d lost three sons on the Boer War and more recently, six grandsons in Germany during the Great War. Most of the older pillars of society find her a troubling enigma, while the younger set find her - and more importantly, her parties - a thrilling spectacle.

The Levinson’s have a massive family estate in the country to the west of the city, but Lady Levinson prefers to live out her remaining days in a nearly equally impressive town house at the heart of London. Lady Levinson was among the first to have her house wired with electric lights, and by the time Harry and Merlin arrive the town house is already teeming with people while the bright lights spill out onto the streets from every window and door in the house. The heavy curtains are drawn back from the massive windows showing clumps of people in fashionable dress dancing or standing in small groups with drinks in hand and laughter on their lips. 

Harry and Merlin split ways before they reach the door to the mansion and it takes only seconds for Harry to swan off into the crowd of socialites milling about from the entry hall all the way throughout the house. The entry hall, frankly, could nearly be a house all of itself; a large room coated in Corinthian marble and spreading out around the base of the massive grand staircase that leads up to the second and third floors of the house. To the right of the entry hall is a long dining room with a heavy antique table long enough to seat thirty sweeping down the center, though the chairs have been moved to the edges of the room and the table is laid with a multitude of dishes and bowls containing finger foods and foreign delicacies. 

On the other side of the entry hall, taking up the left side of the ground floor is a large parlor lined with massive windows looking out onto the street. In this room Lady Levinson holds her court. She stands out in strange contrast to the sparkle and vivacity that makes up the party around her; a distinctly dower looking woman in her eighties dressed perpetually in the blacks and grays of mourning. Despite her grim demeanour, she must take some enjoyment from the party or else she wouldn’t continue to throw them. At her elbow is her current favorite bauble, a young man with dark skin and a massive turban decorated with a heavy, glimmering ruby. The young man has apparently found great success - and subsequent wealth - by convincing Lady Levinson that he has a particularly strong spiritual connection to her oldest son who died in Africa nearly thirty years ago. 

He is one of five ‘mediums’ employed at this particular party, and the only one beside the boy that Harry has dragged Merlin here to test who actually possesses any magic at all. He doesn’t have much, just a faint shimmer of power that centers mostly around the ruby affixed to his turban - likely the actual source of his ‘gift’. Merlin very much doubts the lad has any real contact to the spirit world; rather, his magic more likely works in the way of a mild hypnosis, exerting just a little extra power to make his lies more convincing. 

That is, of course, by far the most common type of magic, and is harmless enough that the Kingsman rarely bother with such individuals. There are a handful of others at the party who display a similar shimmer, barely registering to Merlin’s senses and only because he is looking for it. It is a gift, but hardly more than a mundane one, ranging from a young woman who is just a little  _ too _ charming - just enough to ensure that she always has a handful a men with amorous intent around her despite not being especially attractive - to a merchant who is just a little bit  _ too  _ lucky at the craps table, to an aging server who has never, and will never, spill so much as a drop of wine or crumb of amuse bouche in the entirety of his career. Such individuals rarely even become aware of their gifts, chalking any unusual occurrences up to a fluke of the universe. They hold no interest to Merlin.

Of even less interest are the three other ‘mediums’ circulating the party. One, a distinguished woman in her forties who goes by the name of Madame Trivoli despite the fact that Merlin knows that her given name is Laura Draper and that she was born in Surrey, has settled herself in a darkened study on the second floor, windowless and heavy with the must of old books, a small card table overburdened with gauzy scarves, sparkling crystals, and tattered tarot cards. She holds court in groups of four to six party goers at a time, seating them around her table while she moans and shakes with the  _ forces of the spiritual realm _ \- not that she’d been spoken to by anything more unusual than a trained parrot in the entirety of her fraudulent life. The other two are twins from France - Sabine and Silvette, though again, their travel papers say differently - two lovely young women dressed in silks with large, alluring brown eyes who flit from room to room, hanging on the arms of eligible young bachelors while they bat their eyelashes and promise great fortunes to come.

Merlin observes these sources of ‘entertainment’ along with the rest of the party goers from the edges of the room. Removed, dispassionate, and to be quite frank, bored. He talks to no one, and no one bothers him; in truth, it’s unlikely that most of the sparkling party goers even notice his presence, much more interested as they are in the drinks that are being passed around and in peacocks like Harry.

Harry, of course, floats through the room like a butterfly cruising in the slipstream of a strong wind. Harry is known, peripherally, by the society set; it is a necessity of his job to maintain some public presence, largely for precisely such occasions as this party. He is neither notable nor unusual enough to be the source of gossip, but he maintains a decidedly polite and cordial relationship with high society as a whole. And it cannot be denied that, of all his duties, Harry enjoys the maintenance of his public persona. It is an ideal balance - Harry has explained to Merlin - where he can attend the occasional party, stretch his proverbial social wings and then return to the quiet and nearly invisible existence of his genuine life with Kingsman.

As far as the public is concerned Harry is the last remaining heir of a small and unremarkable side branch of a rather old family - which is true - and that he holds some minor bureaucratic position of little importance in the government - which is distinctly less true. He is considered to be an affable but intensely private man, welcomed and enjoyed at social gatherings but neither expected nor looked for most of the time. Of course, given the passing decades, the idea that Harry is a ‘confirmed bachelor’ has been accepted by most and is decidedly not talked about, although there do still tend to be a few particularly desperate spinsters and overeager war widows who occasionally put in a bid for his attention. Which Harry will often entertain so far as an evening of dancing and conversation, when he isn’t too busy; luckily for both of them, Merlin isn’t a jealous man and while Harry enjoys flirting as both a leisure activity and a useful tool in his work, he never means anything by it. 

Of course, it’s only  _ because _ of Harry’s now decades worth of experience that allows him to navigate the social set so smoothly and inoffensively. The years have settled on Harry like a lovely and perfectly fitted coat - although Merlin would ever confess to thinking something so ridiculously poetic. Merlin still fondly remembers the hopelessly awkward and uncertain young man Harry had been when they’d first met; not that Merlin had been in any position to judge, having been both painfully shy and largely uninterested in people of any kind at the time. But Harry has managed to grow beautifully into his own skin, covering his lingering awkwardness with a skillfully crafted cloak of polite but aloof self-assuredness. It’s enjoyable enough to watch Harry weave his webs of grace and cordiality, but Merlin far prefers the genuine Harry - kind hearted and still, at least at times, unbearably awkward - that he is at home.

Merlin, in contrast, may no longer be as shy as he once was, but he does remain decidedly uninterested in the vast majority of humanity - apart from a clinical, scientific sort curiosity. Within Kingsman the  _ liking _ or not of individuals isn’t particularly important, but Merlin has worked hard to earn his place at the table despite not technically being a Knight. He holds what is, to him, a rather comfortable position as support to the Knights but head of the rest of the support, and that position provides him with consistent and natural patterns of interaction; Harry, of course, is an exception, but then again, Harry has  _ always been _ an exception, in a number of ways.

Unlike Harry, Merlin maintains no public presence. In fact, ever since joining Kingsman he has made a thorough point of all but obliterating the person he had been before - both publicly, and in certain ways privately as well - to the extent that if some socialite were to attempt to engage him in conversation, he’d be hard pressed to even provide a name. He remains on the edges of the party, passing from room to room as though he himself is one of the spirits that Madame Trivoli claims to invite. It’s a simple enough trick, and relies primarily on the bustling and excited atmosphere of the party, the carelessness of socialites in regards to anyone unlikely to either provide entertainment or increase their standing, and his own naturally bland and forgettable appearance. He only needs to add the thinnest layer of magic, just a gentle nudge to push any eye that happens to wonder his direction away again, and he’s effectively rendered invisible. It’s effective with minimal effort, and thoroughly useful, leaving him free to observe while remaining unobserved himself.

As soon as he has finished gathering his bearings, Merlin turns his attention to the fifth “psychic”, though in this rare instance the quotation marks aren’t necessary. The lad is exactly as Harry had described him - young and handsome, with a strong jaw and soulful eyes - but even without Harry’s description Merlin would have known the boy instantly by the silver glow like a fine mist that surrounds him.

Gary Unwin - according to the invitation to this particular party, which Harry ‘procured’ from the lad’s apartment the day before - is, on the surface, almost shockingly mundane. He’s a handsome young man, certainly, Merlin can hardly argue with Harry on that point. There’s also something effortlessly likeable about him, in a way that Merlin doesn’t think has to do with his Gift at all, but is rather a natural, human affability. His suit is nearly two decades out of fashion, the long swallowtails of his coat and white bow tie around his neck standing out as almost quaintly outdated among the gaudily modern, high society party goers around him; but despite its age, the suit is immaculately well kept and it fits the boy perfectly from his unusually broad shoulders to his trim waist.

Unlike his counterparts, there’s almost nothing affected about Mr. Unwin at all; even his accent is almost natural, with only the slightest effort to smooth out some of its rougher edges. Although, Merlin supposes, a psychic with that kind of power hardly needs the distraction of baubles and affectations that the common charlatan requires. The downside is that Merlin witnesses the lad being confused for a waiter more than once. Mr. Unwin responds with the sort of polite chagrin covering grit teeth that speaks of long experience at being looked down upon by the ‘upper class’; Merlin may not have come from the same background at Mr. Unwin, but he’s been on the outside of  _ society _ enough to sympathize deeply. 

Merlin keeps his subtle presence along the edges of the party, trailing Mr. Unwin from a distance, listening and watching without being noticed himself. It’s strangely refreshing to see a psychic work in such a straightforward manner; Mr. Unwin’s act is largely without embellishments, a crystal sphere that fits neatly into the palm of his hand serving as his only prop. He talks up his act, insisting that his patrons give him a moment to listen to the spirits, or taking his time squinting dramatically into his sphere before making a pronouncement. Even his answers are rather bland - although, in fairness, the vast majority of the questions he is asked are predictable and boring. That’s the trouble with the sorts of people who ask to have their fortunes told, in board terms, they really only want one of two things: promises of fortune and promises of love. And, like any good psychic, Mr. Unwin gives his patrons exactly that, couched in vague language that can be loosely interpreted to suit the listener best. He’s barely even using his power and most of his ‘predictions’ have nothing to do with visions or spirits and everything to do with pleasing the guests in order to accumulate larger tips - although the lad does accurately predict the impending death of a middle aged man’s wealthy great aunt and the sex of a young woman’s unborn child.

If anything, the lad seems bored. He moves through the party, flirting and predicting by rote, and Merlin can’t help but to notice that as soon as no one is looking Mr. Unwin’s polite affability drops and his shoulders stoop just a bit - that, too, Merlin sympathizes with. The party is barely a few hours old - and has long since lost any attraction to Merlin, but he hadn’t particularly wanted to come in the first place - when Merlin decides it’s time to make his move.

He starts small. There’s no need for dramatics, of course, not until they know more about the situation at hand and young Mr. Unwin’s character. A deft twist of Merlin’s fingers brings to life a glimmering trail of lights. It’s a simple illusion, one that he had found scribbled almost illegibly in the margins of an ancient manuscript and had likely originated as idle entertainment for an incredibly bored monk. He floats the lights up to be perfectly in Mr. Unwin’s eyeline, a twinkling trail of swirling spots, not unlike a peculiar storm of fireflies that can only be seen by eyes gifted with magic.

The lights create a line from the overcrowded dining room down the hall and toward a currently empty sitting room where Merlin would be able to invite Mr. Unwin to join him for a private chat, and Merlin watches closely, waiting for Mr. Unwin to follow the proverbial breadcrumbs. Except, Mr. Unwin doesn’t react. At first Merlin presumes that he simply hasn’t seen the lights, so he makes them bigger, makes them sparkle and flash in different colors. It takes a few more minutes - Mr. Unwin is deeply engaged in reassuring a middle aged woman that her husband is not, in fact, having an affair - but finally the lad reacts.

Except for how he doesn’t, not how Merlin expected. As soon as the woman with the philandering husband moves on, Mr. Unwin blinks several times, shaking his head slightly as though he is trying to clear his vision. As the next patron steps up to catch his attention - this time an over eager lad who wants to know odds on the next pony race, is younger even than Mr. Unwin and, in Merlin’s opinion, far too young to be at this party at all - Mr. Unwin begins to studiously ignore the lights. His gaze flicks sideways to them every few seconds and he stumbles just the slightest bit over the delivery of his ‘message from the spirits’, but otherwise he shows no reaction; not even when Merlin causes a small cluster of lights to hover directly in front of the lad’s face, practically dancing on the bridge of his nose. 

As soon as Mr. Unwin manages to shake off the youth with too much interest in the ponies, he turns his back fully on the trail of lights. He dodges a little too hastily around a cluster of dancers flailing about and nearly gets kicked in the shin for his troubles before he reaches the drinks cart set up in the next room over. Mr. Unwin pours himself a generous glass of water and drains it so quickly he nearly chokes - Merlin had observed the lad sipping from a glass or two of champagne earlier, though he has clearly made a purposeful effort to avoid his mind becoming clouded by alcohol.

Merlin scowls and drops the illusion, determining that Mr. Unwin is, evidently, not one to be enticed by mysterious lights. He secures himself a finger of smooth scotch while he watches Mr. Unwin take a moment to recover himself. The lad looks tired, but more than that he looks… alarmed. That puzzles Merlin, after all, the display of lights is among the most harmless magics he knows, and had Mr. Unwin bothered to look properly he would have clearly been able to identify Merlin as the caster of the spell. It’s not as though he’s a particularly imposing man, and he can see no reason why Mr. Unwin would be alarmed by such an innocuous magical greeting.

… Unless the boy is unaware of his powers.

The realization hits Merlin all at once and he feels foolish for not having considered it before. After all, the idea that a powerful magician might be playing the conman rather than using his gifts as a legitimate psychic - while it isn’t totally ludicrous, it is a rather surprising coincidence. 

But it is an idea that requires Merlin to entirely rethink his approach. If the lad knows nothing about his own gift, nothing about magic at all, then Merlin will have to take slightly more proactive measures in order to entice the power out of him. After all, Merlin knows from personal experience how easy it is to discount one’s own powers when magic is believed to be a thing only of legend and fairy tales.

He watches as the lad recovers himself and moves on to three more patrons in succession, each a mundane, typical request. Mr. Unwin gives them what they expect, accept their coins with due gratitude, and moves on. Where previously he had lingered with clients, eager to milk a little extra from them or entice them into asking for another prophecy, now the lad moves on quickly, flitting from patron to patron as though he can’t be done with this party fast enough. 

Another twenty minutes pass before an elderly gentleman approaches Mr. Unwin, nervously inquiring about a message from his deceased wife - apparently the man is looking to remarry and is convinced that his former wife is haunting him in order to ruin the engagement. Mr. Unwin ushered the gentleman and his - distinctly much younger, Merlin can’t help but to notice - fiancée into a small study on the back side of the house and closes the door behind them. Merlin lingers in the hallway, considering for a moment, before ducking into the water closet a few doors down from the study. With the door securely locked behind him, Merlin fills the incongruously old fashioned wash basin with water, bracing his hands on either side of the bowl and taking a deep breath to steady himself.

He stares deep and hard into the clear, still water, focusing his mind until he can feel the world shift around him. It’s a bit like plunging head first into a pond during mid-winter as the whole world flexes and bends around him, then Merlin blinks his eyes and finds himself in a small, smoky room lit only by a shaded lamp. The room is windowless, the walls lined with bookshelves and a trio of overstuffed armchairs drawn close around a small table. Mr. Unwin is performing his show, his crystal ball balanced in the center of the table while his two clients lean in so eagerly that they are in danger of toppling not only themselves but the table and crystal ball as well. Mr. Unwin has his eyes closed, his hands waving with restrained fanfare over the ball and his lips are moving though he doesn’t bother with actually verbalizing any mystical nonsense.

Merlin remains where he is - this particular projection requires a great deal of energy and moving is beyond Merlin’s current abilities if he wants to be able to walk out of this house under his own power. He knows without looking that there is a mirror on the mantelpiece over the fireplace behind him, both water and mirrors working as places where the fabric of reality are thin so that Merlin can project his consciousness through them. It is a highly useful tool for spying, and had he projected into a room devoid of gifted individuals he would be able to linger here undetected until his energy ran out.

This room, however, is not devoid of gifted individuals, and that is entirely the point. Merlin has to grit his teeth to maintain his concentration while he waits for Mr. Unwin to open his eyes - and as soon as Mr. Unwin does, he nearly startles straight out of his chair.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Unwin says, hastily covering his shock with indignation. “This is a private session. You’ll have to wait outside-”

Merlin doesn’t bother trying to contain his smirk as he watches the other two occupants of the room look around in confusion.

“Who the devil are you talking to?” the gentleman demands as his gaze glides right over where Merlin is standing during a full rotation of the room before looking back to Mr. Unwin.

Merlin risks the effort it takes to raise his hand and give Mr. Unwin a little finger wave. He hears just the beginning of Mr. Unwin’s fumbling explanation, “an uninvited spirit must have-”

Merlin breaks the spell and suddenly he’s back in the washroom leaning over a bowl of rippling water. He makes it the two steps to the toilet just in time to gag over the bowl and flush the evidence away - an unfortunate side effect of astral travel, but thankfully a minor one. He takes a couple of extra minutes to breathe carefully through his nose and shake off any lingering vertigo, then he rinses out his mouth, checks that he hasn’t messed up his suit, and exits the washroom.

He lingers in the hallway, casually sipping a sherry as he waits for the study door to open. Mr. Unwin comes out with his arm looped through the gentleman’s fiancée’s, a bright, false smile on his lips as he leads the pair back to the dining room. Merlin holds his chin up, keeping his gaze steady and firm on Mr. Unwin, but Mr. Unwin’s smile only dims slightly as his gaze flicks toward Merlin and away again hastily. He stumbles half a step over a wrinkle in the rug before picking up his pace as he rushes off with the couple practically serving as a barrier to prevent Merlin from interacting with the lad directly.

Stubborn, Merlin assesses, feeling in equal parts frustrated and amused. He doesn’t back off this time, all but stalking Mr. Unwin and his patrons back into the brightly lit dining room, full of chatty party goers most of whom are more than a little sloshed by this point. Mr. Unwin procures three glasses of champagne and toasts his clients’ impending nuptials before extricating himself from them, but unlike before he doesn’t fade out to the edges of the room. Instead, he keeps himself in the thick of a knot of overly exuberant men of about Mr. Unwin’s own age, cheering with them as they tease him good naturedly about his “ghost pals”.

Merlin’s patience, and energy, are running thin. Evidently he had succeeded in spooking the lad, but there’s still been no display of real magic from him, nor does Mr. Unwin seem inclined toward accepting Merlin’s pointed invitations for a conference. Which means that Merlin will have to take more drastic measures to force his hand.

He sees his chance and snatches upon it immediately when Mr. Unwin reaches across the buffet laid out in order to pick up a crumpet. Conveniently, the lad’s sleeve passes within a few inches of one of the lit candles ornamenting the offerings of food; under ordinary circumstances, it would have meant nothing, but Merlin specialized in the unordinary and with a flick of his fingers a bit of the flame from the tip of the candle jumps the three inches of empty air to catch on the hem of Mr. Unwin’s sleeve.

Mr. Unwin starts, swearing enthusiastically. Merlin has tight control of the flame, of course, and it will cause no more harm than leaving a bit of soot on the lad’s coat, but Merlin watches expectantly. It’s a common test that Merlin has used before when they were unsure of a new target’s talents. Regardless of the particular skill set a person might possess, if they have any magical capabilities at all it will come out instinctively and put out the fire in order to protect themselves.

Or rather, it’s  _ supposed _ to.

Mr. Unwin, apparently determined to thwart Merlin in every possible way, produces no magic whatsoever. The other party goers around Mr. Unwin start to notice the wayward flame and a startled cry - of warning or alarm, depending on the constitution of each individual - begins to make its way in a wave around the room. But before anyone else can do more than cry out, Mr. Unwin snatches up a tureen of soup with his other hand and promptly dumps it all over his own arm, effectively dousing the flames. He waves his now soaked arm in the air to reassure everyone that the fire has been successfully put out, a false laugh on his lips as he dismisses his own clumsiness.

But even as the tension breaks, allowing party goers laugh and cheer the successful abortion of what might have easily become a tragedy, Mr. Unwin’s gaze cuts through the crowd to find Merlin. Mr. Unwin’s eyes have gone dark as he locks gazes with Merlin, and as soon the attentions of the party goers wonder away from him again, the lad breaks away from the table to cut sharply across the room.

Merlin doesn’t need precognition to see where this is going. Luckily, this is not Merlin’s first night out and he’s made sure to stay near to the door. He slips out through the open doorway, passing quickly out of the dining room and back into the entryway. He doesn’t stop to consider, a plan already formulating in his mind. Harry is just inside the front parlor, watching Lady Levinson’s turban-clad mystic put on a display, but his gaze flicks out to the entryway as Merlin is crossing it and Merlin knows that Harry’s focus is singularly back on the task at hand. Merlin cuts to the left, passing behind the massive grand stairway toward the kitchen and servants’ quarters that make up the back of the house. Merlin and Harry had both thoroughly scoped out the floorplan of the house before arriving to the party, so Merlin knows exactly the path necessary to take him through the kitchen and pantry and out of a side door into the small herb and vegetable garden behind the house.

Despite his relatively short legs, Mr. Unwin has a long and hasty gait when he wants to, and he bursts out into the garden only steps behind Merlin. “Who the fuck are you?” the lad snarls. His hand are clenched into fists, his sleeve still dripping with cream and wilted spinach leaves from the soup, and his whole face is twisted up into the expression of a man who has had  _ enough _ .

Merlin, for his part, stays decidedly calm. This may not be exactly how he’d anticipating the evening playing out, but he is always a man with several contingencies. He squares himself in the middle of the garden, the high brick wall the separates the patch of greenery from the alley beyond to his back. “I am called Merlin,” he answers, his voice carefully level; of course, a name isn’t actually what the boy had meant by his question, but Merlin feels it would be impolite not to introduce himself anyway. “I’ve been trying to have a conversation with you all evening, Mr. Unwin.”

The lad nearly recoils at the sound of his own name, his face red with the sort of anger that Merlin knows well to be covering no small amount of fear. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but-”

“No game, Mr. Unwin,” Merlin corrects. There’s an apple tree in the corner of the garden, a small and twisted thing but it had managed to produce a handful of fruits. Merlin plucks one in a way that would have been absent if it weren’t a calculated move. He shines the ripe fruit on his own sleeve, casually, and straightening his finger out he gestures through the air in one swift swipe so that the apple splits into two neat halves.

Mr. Unwin recoils again and makes a sound that was probably meant to be a snarl but comes out closer to a squawk, as though the little display of magic was somehow personally offensive.

“I would very much like to know more about your gift,” Merlin says, cutting straight to the heart of the matter and simultaneously cutting a slice off of the apple to pop into his mouth. He can see Harry lurking in the open doorway to the kitchen behind Mr. Unwin, his umbrella firmly in hand but he’s hanging back to let Merlin take the lead.  “I have reason to suspect you’re a very talented young man.”

Mr. Unwin scoffs. “You’re not too bad yourself. I’d like to know how you pulled off that mirror trick,” he says, but it’s defiant, challenging.

“Oh, I can teach you, certainly,” Merlin agrees amiably. “Although astral projection is a rather advanced discipline, it will take a few years of study before you’re ready for something like that.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” Mr. Unwin shakes his head and shifts his weight as though he would very much like to dismiss the entire conversation and flee back into the house, but he can’t quite bring himself to turn his back on Merlin. “I don’t have time for your bullshit, I’ve got money to earn.”

Merlin tosses aside the rest of the apple carelessly and steps forward, closing the distance between them until he can put what will hopefully pass as a fatherly hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Forget about money, Gary,” he says, his voice low and enticing. “Come with me and I can teach you-”

But Merlin doesn’t get the chance to finish his promise. He barely even settles his hand onto the thin fabric of the lad’s old fashioned jacket before a force not unlike the blast from a cannon hits him square in the mid-section. It blows him backwards, slamming him into the brick wall several feet behind him. He barely has time to do more than realize his feet have left the ground before his back impacts with the rough brick and the world goes dark around him.


End file.
